


Myself When I am Real

by MlleClaudine



Category: All My Children
Genre: Bisexual Female Character, Crimes & Criminals, Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Moral Ambiguity, Sex for Favors, Sexual Content, These are not nice people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:13:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4700465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MlleClaudine/pseuds/MlleClaudine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Lena Kundera's life became inextricably interwoven with Michael Cambias'. Michael does figure significantly but this story in no way seeks to justify or apologize for him or his actions. M/F (consensual and not-quite-consensual), F/F and all kinds of shenanigans and chicanery within. Feedback as always is greatly appreciated!</p><p>Visit my silly Tumblr thingie over at <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine">https://www.tumblr.com/blog/mlleclaudine</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"English, definitely English. No good. Here, take a look," said the girl, passing the camera over.

Her companion adjusted the focus on the telephoto lens and frowned. The slim brown Sobranie poised between her lips –- it was unlit; they were much too expensive for her to actually smoke –- tilted dramatically downward for emphasis. "I don't know, Anežka. The clothes are English but him, he's too... well fed. I'd say American."

They were lingering at one of their favorite and most consistently productive haunts, a small shaded park at the foot of the Old Castle Steps that had a perfect view of the outdoor cafe at the Hoffmeister, checking out potential marks.

The fall of communism had brought on its heels a growing surge of immigrants to Prague: artists, adventurers, dreamers. In other words, flat broke and therefore useless. But every passing year also brought increasing flocks of visitors, many of them wealthy, gullible and ripe for the picking. Americans, of course, made the best targets.

Something about this one gave her pause. For one thing, he was alone, which Americans rarely were. For another, he looked as though he were absolutely at home, comfortable in his skin, with none of the smiling unease or sweaty bonhomie of the typical tourist. He was younger than she had taken him for at first glance. Traces of baby fat still blurred the otherwise hard lines of his face, though a permanent scowl had already begun to etch parentheses around the petulant mouth. The dark glasses he wore unnecessarily on this overcast day did not quite cover the pale goggle marks of a skier's tan. Compactly muscular frame draped in classic Savile Row tailoring, he sprawled indolently over the spindly looking wrought iron chair, playing idly with the cork from the bottle of wine that stood on the small table. He had drunk only one full glass and barely touched his lips to a second in the last half hour.

She watched as he signalled impatiently for a waiter, the gesture revealing the dull-gold breadth of a good watch. He signed the bill with a large battered Montblanc fountain pen, then stood and walked into the hotel, the doormen all but bowing and scraping as he passed. Everything about him spoke quietly but emphatically of serious Money.

Anežka nudged her friend's ankle. "So what do you think, cipka?"

"I think," said Lena, lowering the camera from her eye at last, "that we need to find out a little more about our pigeon."

By long custom, they divided their plan of attack. Anežka entered the hotel lobby to whisper into the ear of Jiri the pimply desk clerk, who usually needed little persuading to slip off to a nearby supply closet for a few minutes' sticky fumbling. Meanwhile Lena strolled across the park and sat in the chair the pigeon had recently vacated.

Old Krzysztof harrumphed as he cleared the table, snatching the mostly full wine bottle away from her reaching hand with a proprietary glare. "What are you up to now, diabelek?"

She was fond of the crotchety old man, despite his tendency to nosiness. He was a useful resource; after twenty years of working there as a waiter, there was very litle he missed when it concerned the hotel and its guests. Besides, it was nice to be able to speak in her native tongue. Her Czech was fluent, moreso the longer she stayed here, but talking with Krzysztof was as comfortable as taking off her shoes at the end of the day. With encouragement he could tell stories for hours, although she was careful to avoid any mention of home. "Of course Prague is beautiful," he would bellow at her when launched on one of his rants, usually after he'd had a few drinks. "Warsaw was destroyed because it was worth fighting for!"

"What makes you think I'm up to anything?"

He snorted, the ends of his white mustache fluttering. "Save that innocent face for someone who'll buy it and let you keep the change. A word of advice, not that you ever listen: next time, at least pretend you're taking pictures of the Hrad. Where did you get that, anyway?"

"Liberated it from a group of Japanese tourists last week."

"Not like you to hang on to the merchandise. Contacts dried up on the black market, did they?"

"Never mind," snapped Lena, nettled. Truth was, the Leica was the nicest thing she'd ever stolen; it had the reassuring heft and precise engineering of a fine instrument and she was loath to part with it. A foolish impulse, but she told herself it was still of value as a disguise and therefore a necessary tool.

Krzysztof sniffed. "You want to burn your hands, what's it to me?"

She lifted one bony shoulder halfway to her ear, then let it drop heavily back into place, an exaggerated pantomime of indifference she knew would fool the old man not at all. "What do you know about the Amerykanin?" she asked as casually as possible.

"Keeps to himself. Holds lots of private meetings with local businessmen. Gets calls from the States at all hours. Very demanding. Terrible tipper."

"Shits higher than his ass?"

"Thinks pretty well of himself, yes."

Lena digested this, chewing thoughtfully at her lower lip. "But who is he?"

"His name is Michael Kinsey," said Anežka, flopping into the chair next to her. "According to the hotel register, he's a real estate developer from Colorado." She was unable to add anything much more substantial except for one interesting item. "One of the Housekeeping girls says he nearly cornered her in his bedroom; fortunately, she'd left the hallway door open and he backed off when a porter walked by. Now they refuse to service his suite unless there are at least two of them present."

"Huh. Nice guy."

"A real prince. So what's our approach?"

"I'm not sure yet. I want to take a look at his personal effects, get a feel for him."

"You girls ask me, you should be careful. That one is up to nothing good."

Lena's mouth gathered unconsciously into a mirthless smile. "So much the better."


	2. Myself When I am Real: Chapter 2

"Well, well, well, what do we have here?"

Lena whipped around, her stomach lodging somewhere in her throat. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, which was suddenly too dry to swallow. Her heart threatened to burst through her chest and there was a dull roaring in her ears.

Too late to hide the passport she was holding. Especially since the door to the room safe was standing wide open.

She examined him warily. Rather than being angry, the young man she had been watching actually seemed to be amused, lips pursed in a cynical half-smile. Otherwise she realized she could not read him at all. Still, there was nothing overtly aggressive or threatening in his posture; she found herself relaxing by degrees, though her eyes never left his face.

He was not physically imposing –- though athletically built, he stood only a couple inches taller than she –- but there was something in the absolute stillness of his body and unwavering gaze that unnerved her. Flat dark eyes gave away no hint of what he was thinking. The slightly weak mouth was counterbalanced by the shadow of a half day's growth of beard. No bespoke suit today, only a navy Ralph Lauren sport jacket over a white button-down shirt, faded jeans and soft leather loafers with no socks.

"I have to admit," he said at last, "it's rather refreshing to be robbed so openly. Much more direct than the unofficial two-tier pricing system for foreigners in this godforsaken town." He held out his hand; she gave him back his passport. "What's your name, little thief?"

"Lena. Kundera," she added a split second later, impulsively giving her mother's maiden name. There was no way of knowing how connected this man was and she did not want him to associate her in any way with her father.

"Lena Kundera," he repeated, slowly. "A lovely name. I'm Michael Kinsey. But then you already knew that." He looked at her appraisingly. "I suppose you bribed your way into my suite. Just out of curiosity, how did you break into the safe?"

She shook her head. "There was no need to break in. With most hotel safes, the default factory code is all zeroes."

"Interesting." He raised an eyebrow. "You speak English very well."

"I have a, a facility for languages."

"Really. Which ones do you speak?"

Lena saw nothing but curiosity in his expression. No need to lie –- about this, anyway. "Polish. Czech and Slovak, since they're related. Some Russian and German. I'm also fluent in French, so Italian and Spanish were easy to pick up."

"A very useful skill, being able to converse with your victims."

She tensed.

"Tell you what, little thief. I'm going to do you a favor and not contact the police. And I'm going to give you the opportunity to repay the favor."

_Here it comes, the hook_. Mentally she shrugged. _Blowjob, maybe, or a quick fuck against the wall; these guys are all the same_. "How do you mean?"

"Show me around the city."

She closed her mouth just in time. _That was all?_ "Show you... but the hotel, they have tour guides who know much more about the history, they speak much better English than I do and they are trained to –- "

"But none of them is half as entertaining as you. Shall we begin with the Square?" The half-smile broadened. "Or perhaps the Castle?"

Her heart beat faster. Surely he couldn't have known that she and Anežka had been spying on him the other day? "That is not a little too... ordinary?"

"Isn't that what people do?"

"The tourists, yes."

The brown eyes sparked with some private amusement and for a moment he was almost handsome. "So let's pretend I'm a tourist, one of the rubes you rob blind before they've had a chance to finish their morning coffee. I assume you pick pockets, cut purses, things like that?"

Lena nodded cautiously.

"How fortunate for me that we happened to meet under much more pleasant circumstances, then. Do me another favor." He reached into the safe for an overstuffed manilla envelope and extracted a thick wad of large-denomination koruny, tossing it to her. Her eyes widened; it was more money than she had ever seen at one time in her life. "Clean up, get yourself some decent clothes, put on some makeup or whatever. I can't be seen with a girl who looks like a Salvation Army scarecrow."


	3. Myself When I am Real: Chapter 3

Even after several weeks, Lena still found the absurd elegance of Michael's suite at the Hoffmeister somewhat surreal: the ornate, fussy furniture and decorations, the deep pile carpet into which her feet sank to the ankles, the gigantic heavenly bed that was so tall she had to literally climb into it, its linens so finely woven they slipped through her fingers. And best of all, the absolute undisturbed quiet. She sighed with satisfaction, snuggling under the foot-thick goosedown duvet.

Beside her, Michael lounged propped up on a pile of pillows, arms folded behind his head, smoking one of his abominable cigars and thinking his inscrutable thoughts. Thick blue-tinged clouds issued upwards, drifting lazily toward her and making her cough.

Finally she had had enough. "Stop that!" she said, playfully snatching the cigar out of his mouth and dropping it into a crystal ashtray on the nightstand on her side of the bed.

Instantly his demeanor changed. Moving so quickly she had no chance to react, he seized her wrists and pinned her down, crushing her into the mattress with his entire weight. She struggled as it became increasingly difficult to breathe. Kurwa, but he was strong! With her arms, hips and legs immobilized, she could not muster enough leverage to push him away. Straining with exertion and fury, swearing between clenched teeth, she butted him hard in the jaw with her forehead.

_Crack!_ went the flat of his hand against her cheek, snapping her head to the side; she cried out, her ears ringing. When the dizziness abated, she realized that he was laughing. And intensely aroused. She lay unresisting as he rutted savagely into her, his cock harder than she'd ever felt it before –- certainly harder than it had been an hour ago, when she'd had to use every trick she knew to get him off. Cursing herself as her body responded to the mechanical movements, to the shameful allure of giving in to being overmastered, her hips started to rock to meet his thrusts. Long before she could have been spurred to any kind of release, though, the relentless pistoning gave way to a series of juddering spasms, his come jetting into her in hot, sticky gouts, and then he was heavily still.

Panting, he raised himself up onto his elbows, the hard muscles of his chest and arms veneered in a shimmer of sweat. There was a trickle of blood at the split in his lower lip where her head had struck, and he was smiling.

He shifted his weight to one arm and brought the other hand to her face; she flinched, but he merely stroked the bruised flesh tenderly, whispering, "Shhhhh." Lying atop her, he reached for the still-smoldering cigar and drew on it a few times; the tip glowed, the edges of the leaves coiling and writhing redly. Almost abstractedly, he pressed the burning end to her left arm.

Lena froze in shock, seeing and feeling and hearing the skin pucker and sizzle. The smell, acrid at first, then disconcertingly reminiscent of roast pork, nearly made her gag. But the pain grew too acute and she shouted, then screamed.

He blinked down at her as if seeing her for the first time, then rolled off, stretching. Casually tugging the covers over them both, he lounged back into a pile of pillows, arms once again behind his head, puffing away at the cigar. Occasionally he turned to blow a stream of thick blue-tinged smoke directly into her face.

She curled into a tight ball, fighting tears, the throbbing in her arm so intense it was all but visible, and said nothing.


	4. Myself When I am Real: Chapter 4

"Well?" said Michael impatiently. "Can you do anything with her?"

One precisely shaped eyebrow arched. Her perfectly outlined and lipsticked mouth pursed briefly into a disapproving moue at him as the woman continued her slow appraisal.

The object of her inspection stood in the center of the small atelier, not looking around and hardly daring to breathe. Her legs were trembling, knees locked; any minute now and she would fall over. It didn't help that this petite, intimidatingly elegant creature made her feel positively gargantuan, but instinctively Lena knew that her usual habit of slouching to minimize her height would be unacceptable.

At last the woman came to a halt, then snorted decisively. "There is potential."

"So you'll do it? How long do you think it'll take to make her presentable?"

"That depends entirely on her. Now leave us."

Lena blinked as Michael obeyed the imperious dismissal without even a hint of protest or bluster, merely sketching an ironic bow before he headed whistling down the creaking stairs. Her attention snapped back as the woman, whom Michael had introduced as Thérèse Vincent with no further explanation, spoke directly to her for the first time since they'd arrived. "Tu parles français?"

Her mouth was dry. She nodded, not trusting her voice.

"Quoi, tu manques de quelqu'un qui tire les ficelles? Réponds, s'il te plais, quand je te pose une question."

She swallowed. "Oui."

"C'était difficile, ça, non? Comment t'appelle-tu? Hé! Ton nom?"

"Lena Kundera."

"Tu m'appeleras 'Madame.' Comprends?"

"Comprenez," she shot back, irritated.

"Expliques-toi."

"Je ne suis ni enfant ni chien, et vous me connaissez à peine. Que vous me tutoyiez dans ces circonstances, c'est un peu impoli. _Madame_."

The great bark of laughter was the last response she'd expected. "Ah bon, la marionnette a une pointe de cran. Peut-être cette entreprise vaudra le coup. Allons-y!"

In the weeks that followed Lena learned quickly. Banal niceties such as table manners and interaction with small gatherings of exquisitely polite people came easily, mainly by intensely studying and copying Madame Vincent's example. She learned to wear clothes, streamlined, perfectly fitted and always leaving more to the imagination than was ever revealed. And she learned the art of applying makeup so subtly that it appeared she was wearing nothing at all. Gradually, the external seemed to feed the internal; over time she began to absorb Madame's tastes and poise and comportment without conscious mimickry.

For the first time in her life, Lena had an actual wardrobe, a judiciously curated mix of off-the-rack and custom-made pieces acquired in numerous shopping trips from boutiques and stores she would never previously have dared to set foot in, not even to shoplift. With Madame in charge, even the most supercilious designers and salespeople scurried to do her bidding. At first Madame chose for her, showing her how to combine fabrics and styles to best effect, but soon she was given free rein to make her own selections, watching surreptitiously for the faint tightening of the lips that signaled disfavor or the subtle nod that meant she had gotten it right, a tiny victory that nonetheless gave her a gratifying burst of satisfaction.

Lena found her fascinating. For one thing, it seemed impossible to determine her age, even on close observation. Madame had the formidable self-possession and sophistication of an older person with a great deal of life experience, but the cut-glass jawline showed no hint of sagging, nor did any wrinkles mar the slender creamy neck or the sculpted face. Her hands were beautifully kept and manicured, and her sleek honey-blonde hair was maintained with regular visits to a master colorist and hairdresser.

Accompanying Madame on one of these visits, Lena found herself seated in the airy, high-ceilinged David Mallett salon, staring wonderingly at the huge stuffed ostrich that occupied the center of the space. M. David himself had welcomed them, greeting Madame with warm familiarity and then standing beside her as together they regarded Lena's image in the mirror.

The scrutiny was discomfiting. She had never given her looks much thought. For all of her life, she had been too skinny, too tall, too gawky; she rarely lingered over her reflection, not wanting to see eyes that were too big for her face, eyes that she had always felt made her look like a hungry baby bird.

"Yes, Thérèse, you're absolutely right," he murmured, turning Lena's head this way and that.

"About what?" Lena snapped.

David looked immediately contrite and focused his attention solely on her. "I'm so sorry, darling." He released her hair from its Alice band and let it spill from his fingers in a dark silken curtain. "Your hair is lovely and I'll wager it hasn't been cut since you were a child." She nodded at him in the mirror. "But covering up your neck is simply criminal. It was meant to be seen." Gently he gathered the waist-length locks in a loose knot up and away from her face. "Like so. See how this brings out your cheekbones and those marvelous eyes? You're very pretty now, but let me cut your hair and I promise you, darling girl, you will be absolutely stunning."

His voice with its faintly clipped British consonants was soothing, as was his patently sincere manner. Taking a deep breath, she nodded.

Idly she noted the stuffed leopard lounging on the floor of the sink area, but she quickly forgot about it as she luxuriated in the novel experience of having her hair washed by someone other than herself. The effortlessly chic assistant massaged her scalp and worked fragrant shampoo through the long strands; rinsing them thoroughly until they squeaked, deftly he wrung out the heavy mass and wrapped it in a towel turban-style around her head, then led her back to David's chair in the main room.

At the first cold touch and unnerving _shkk shkk!_ of his shears she shut her eyes tightly and resolutely kept them closed. He hummed tunelessly under his breath as he worked. A breeze teased the back of her neck; she tried not to think of the piles of hair that must be slithering to the floor. After an eternity, during which he seemed to be combing and snipping individual strands, at last she felt the soft bristles of a brush whisking her neck and shoulders. Hands untied and removed the smock that covered her clothing.

"Have a look, darling girl," murmured David's voice in her ear.

Slowly she cracked open one eye, then the other.

The face that stared back at her was familiar and yet utterly transformed. Her hair was shockingly short, as short as a boy's, with an artfully tousled tumble that fell over one brow and angled layers that at once framed her cheekbones and softened the squareness of her jaw. Beaming broadly, David gave her a hand mirror, which she used to slowly examine her head from all angles.

Cool smooth fingers stroked the column of Lena's neck; she shivered at the unexpected sensuality of the simple contact. "So, chérie," said Madame, amused, "what do you think?"

In answer, Lena leaned forward and kissed her reflection, leaving behind a perfect imprint of her mouth. Her lipstick did not smear, she noted, inordinately pleased. Almost preening, she raised her eyes to meet Madame's in the mirror.

The discerning grey gaze shone with warmth and approval but also something new, something undefinable that made her heart beat faster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _6/8/15 To be continued. And yes, this chapter is a deliberate homage to "La Femme Nikita" (the brilliant original film, not the bloodless and toothless Bridget Fonda remake), though Lena's interaction with Thérèse will go in a considerably different direction in the next chapter._
> 
> _I seem to be in housecleaning mode these days –- this is a story I started writing in 2004, after a friend introduced me to AMC's Lianca storyline. Despite the inconsistent writing and characterizations and the beyond-implausible situations, I was enthralled by Olga Sosnovska's portayal of the Hot Polish Fox because, well, dayum. Comments, flames and indecent proposals are all welcome; feel free to pull up a chair and dish._


End file.
